The Waiting
by heisey
Summary: In the words of the song, the waiting is the hardest part.  But is it?  This is a story about what might have happened after Jim was shot, as Christie and others wait at the hospital to find out whether Jim would wake up, whether he would live or die.
1. Chapter 1

**The Waiting**

_Chapter One_

_Day One_

The intercom buzzed. "Damn," Christie muttered irritably as she punched the button on her desk phone. The last thing she needed this afternoon was another interruption. "Yes," she said curtly.

The voice of the magazine's receptionist, Kelly, came from the speaker. She sounded tentative – and a little afraid. "Christie," she began, "there are two, uh, policemen here to see you – uh, a Captain Myers and a Detective, uh, Molina."

"Jimmy," Christie whispered.

"Sorry, what did you say?" Kelly asked.

"Nothing. I'll be right there." Suspecting she wasn't going to return to her office, she grabbed her handbag as she left. She'd been a cop's wife for four years – long enough to know the NYPD didn't send captains to deliver good news. "Something's happened," she told her startled assistant, Sara, as she rushed past her desk, "I have to go."

"But, Christie, what about – " Sara began, then broke off when she realized Christie wasn't going to answer her.

Her anxiety mounting with every step, Christie hurried through the corridors. It struck her for the first time just how far her office was from the reception room. Someone – she didn't stop to find out who it was – called out to her as she passed an open office door, but she ignored him.

She finally reached the reception room. Two middle-aged men, the taller one in uniform, the shorter one in plain clothes, rose as she entered. Their expressions were solemn. The taller one spoke first. "Mrs. Dunbar?" he asked. Christie nodded. "Captain Joel Myers." Indicating the shorter man, he added, "Detective Art Molina." Christie nodded again to acknowledge the introductions.

"Is there someplace we can talk privately?" Myers asked.

"Yes, this way," Christie replied. The two men followed her to the conference room that opened off of the reception area.

When the door closed behind them, Myers took a deep breath before he spoke formally. "I regret to inform you that your husband, Detective James Dunbar, has been injured in the line of duty – "

Christie interrupted him before he could continue. "Injured? Injured how?" she demanded.

"He sustained a gunshot wound – to the head," Myers replied.

"Oh, my God," Christie whispered in shock. She stepped back, colliding with the back of a chair. She held onto it for support. "Is he – ?" Her voice trailed off. She couldn't bring herself to finish the question.

"He's alive and on his way to the hospital." Myers consulted his watch. "He should be there by now. We have a car waiting to take you there."

Christie nodded, then crossed to the door and opened it. Myers and Molina followed her. She paused at the reception desk and spoke hurriedly to Kelly. "I have to leave – it's my husband, tell Clay – tell him it's an emergency." Without waiting for an answer, she turned and walked to the elevators, where Myers and Molina were waiting.

A sense of unreality came over Christie as the elevator descended to the lobby. Surely this was happening to someone else, not to her. Like every other cop's wife she'd ever met, she lived with the knowledge that something like this could happen. But, deep down, she didn't believe it would actually happen to her. It was her way of coping. Now that belief had been shattered.

When she was seated in the back seat of the unmarked police car with Myers beside her, she noticed they were heading downtown from her midtown office. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"Bellevue," Myers replied, "that's where they were taking him."

Christie gave a puzzled frown. This didn't make sense. "What – happened?" she asked.

"There was an attempted robbery of an armored car at a Manhattan Trust branch on 34th Street," Myers told her.

"Wait, wait," she interrupted, feeling a surge of hope, "Jim works uptown, at the 2-5. Are you sure it's him?"

Myers looked at her sympathetically. "His partner was with him – a Detective Terry Jansen," he told her. "Detective Jansen is your husband's partner, isn't he?"

Christie's heart sank. "Yes."

After a moment, Myers continued his explanation. "Patrol officers arrived at the bank before the subject could flee the scene. Detectives Dunbar and Jansen also responded. There was an exchange of gunfire, and Detective Dunbar was hit, but he managed to bring down the suspect. By all accounts, his actions were heroic."

"Oh." Christie thought for a minute. It still didn't make sense. Finally she said, "But he shouldn't have been there. What was he doing there?"

Myers shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Dunbar, I don't know."

Several minutes later, they turned into the hospital's emergency entrance. Two television news vans and a gaggle of reporters were there before them. One of them yelled, "It's the wife!"

Myers swore softly, then turned to Christie. "We'll take you inside – just wait for me to come around and open the door. Are you ready?"

Christie nodded. As Myers and Molina got out of the car and came around to her side, the reporters rushed the car. The two officers opened the car door, standing in front of her as she got out. One on either side of her, they pushed their way through the crowd of shouting reporters and into the emergency room.

Once inside, Christie went directly to the desk. She spoke to the first person she saw, a plump blonde woman in pink scrubs. "My husband is here, Detective Jim Dunbar – " she began.

The woman gave her a look of sympathy. "Yes, he's here," she confirmed, "The doctors are working on him now."

"How – ?"

"I'll see what I can find out." The woman turned away and disappeared down a corridor into the treatment area.

As Christie waited at the desk, she looked around the room and noticed a group of cops clustered in a corner. Jim's squad was already there. Terry was with them. She caught his eye, but he looked away as soon as he saw her. She noticed several of the cops were women. She couldn't help wondering if one of them was the woman she knew only as The Woman. She was still reeling from her discovery, ten days before, that Jim had had a three-month affair with a woman he said he met on the job. Christie didn't know anything else about her. She didn't want to know any details about her, or about the affair. She wasn't even sure The Woman was a cop. When Jim tried to explain, she had stormed angrily out of the room. She wasn't interested in his excuses and rationalizations. She knew all she needed to know. Jim had betrayed her and destroyed her trust in him, probably irreparably. She had no idea whether their marriage could be salvaged – or even if she wanted to salvage it. Her hurt and anger were still too raw. But now –

"Mrs. Dunbar?" a man's voice asked.

Startled, she looked back toward the desk. A gray-haired man in green scrubs was standing there, next to the woman she'd spoken to earlier.

"Yes," she replied.

"Dr. Alex Barton, Chief of Emergency Medicine. Your husband has sustained a gunshot wound to the head."

Christie nodded. "I know, Captain Myers told me. How – ?"

"He's unconscious, but we've stabilized him. The neurosurgeons are taking him to the operating room. You can see him before they take him upstairs, if you wish."

"Yes, I'd like that."

"Come with me, please."

Barton escorted Christie to the trauma room, continuing his explanation of Jim's condition as they walked. She listened in growing disbelief. Less than an hour ago, she had been working at her desk. Now Jim was going to have brain surgery.

When they arrived at the trauma room, Barton opened the door and stood aside to allow Christie to enter. She stifled a gasp and had to stop herself from stepping back when she saw Jim. He was almost unrecognizable. His hair was bloody. The left side of his face was bruised and swollen, and odd bluish smudges had appeared below both of his eyes. Tubes and wires connected him to the medical equipment surrounding him. A nurse stood near his head, apparently adjusting the settings on one of the machines. She noticed Christie and gave her an encouraging smile. "It's okay, you can come closer if you want," she said kindly.

Christie took a deep breath to steady herself and crossed the room to stand next to Jim. He didn't react to her approach. His eyes were closed, and he was motionless except for the regular up and down movement of his chest, in rhythm with the ventilator which pushed air into his lungs. She stepped closer and took his hand in hers. "I'm here, Jimmy," she said. He gave no sign that he had heard her.

Not knowing what else to do, she stood silently, holding his hand and gazing down at the man who had betrayed her. She wasn't sure what she felt. Part of her wanted to snap at him, "Serves you right, you bastard." But she didn't really believe this was some kind of cosmic payback for his infidelity. The universe didn't work that way. And, no matter what he'd done, she had once loved the man who lay there. Maybe she still did.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Waiting**

_Chapter Two_

The surgery team arrived, interrupting Christie's attempt to sort out her feelings. She stepped back and watched as they prepared to take Jim to the operating room. A tall, balding man in scrubs left the group and approached her.

"Mrs. Dunbar?" he asked. She nodded. "Dr. Lowell Peterson. I'll be doing your husband's surgery."

Not giving her a chance to respond, he launched into an explanation of the operation Jim was about to undergo. Christie listened intently at first, trying to take it all in, but when Peterson started talking about the possibilities of death or disability, her mind seemed to go blank. It was all too much. When he asked her if she had any questions, all she could do was shake her head. The nurse standing next to Peterson handed her a clipboard with a consent form, indicating where she should sign. She signed without reading it.

In numb disbelief, she watched Peterson and his team finish their preparations for moving Jim to the operating room. Then they were gone. She remained behind, looking at the detritus of the emergency treatment which had taken place in the room. She noticed some ripped pieces of cloth among the pools of blood on the floor – the torn remnants of Jim's favorite suit. He was not going to be happy about that, she thought, then shook her head at the absurdity of the thought.

"Mrs. Dunbar?" A woman's soft voice came from behind her. Christie turned to see a slender young woman standing in the doorway. Her light brown hair was gathered into a French braid that hung down her back. A hospital badge was clipped to the jacket of her blue pantsuit. It read, "Amanda Jablonski, LCSW."

"Yes?" Christie answered her.

"Mandy Jablonski. I'm a social worker here at the hospital. We've set aside a room where you can wait while Detective Dunbar is in surgery. If you'll come with me?"

"Oh, okay," Christie replied, then added, "Thank you." She followed Mandy to the elevators.

As they waited for an elevator, Mandy asked, "Is there anyone I can call for you?"

Christie looked at her blankly. "Call?"

"You know," Mandy said gently, "your family or – anyone."

"Oh, yes," Christie said absently. "My parents, I guess, and my sister." She recited their names and telephone numbers as Mandy wrote down the information.

"What about your husband's family?" Mandy asked.

Christie thought for a moment, then shook her head. Jim's father had walked out on his family when Jim was a boy. His mother had died two years before. Jim hadn't spoken to his older brother, Jack, since their mother's funeral – with good reason. "No," she told Mandy, "there's no one he'd want you to call."

Mandy gave her a questioning look, but merely said, "All right." The elevator arrived, and they rode up to the surgical floor in silence.

When Christie and Mandy stepped out of the elevator, Walter Clark separated himself from a group of men standing in the hall and went to meet them.

"Christie, my dear," he said, taking her hands in his and giving her a peck on the cheek. "How are you?"

"All right, I guess," she replied uncertainly. "I don't know. It doesn't seem – real."

Walter nodded gravely. "I understand."

"I'll go make those calls for you," Mandy said. "You can wait in here," she added, indicating a door about ten feet away.

"Thank you," Walter said. He led Christie to the waiting room, opened the door for her, and followed her inside. She sank into a chair, grateful for the reassuring presence of the rotund, gray-haired man. Next to his partner, Terry, Walter was Jim's closest friend in the Department. He had been Jim's mentor in his first years as a detective, and even now, as a ten-year veteran, Jim still sought his counsel. She'd lost track of the number of times he'd saved Jim from himself.

Walter and Christie sat in silence for a few moments. Then she noticed, for the first time, the television set in a corner of the room. It was tuned to NY1's coverage of the attempted robbery. They were replaying some earlier footage of the scene. She looked up at it. On the screen was an overhead shot, apparently from a news helicopter, showing several unmoving figures lying in the street and on the sidewalk. The camera didn't zoom in on them, but it didn't have to. She could tell one of them was Jim, lying on the sidewalk, surrounded by paramedics. She quickly looked away, appalled. She thought she was going to be sick. "Oh, my God," she whispered.

"Damn vultures," Walter muttered. "I'll turn it off," he said, standing and walking to the corner to turn off the TV.

When he returned to his seat next to her, he asked, "Are you all right?"

Christie swallowed hard. "I – think so," she replied. After a moment, she turned to him and asked, "What was Jimmy doing there? He shouldn't have been there!" She wasn't sure why, but she needed to know what had brought Jim to that street where he shouldn't have been. Maybe, if she knew that, the rest of it would make sense.

Walter shook his head sadly. "I don't know," he said. "Have you talked to Terry?"

"Not yet. I saw him downstairs, but we – didn't speak." Now that she thought of it, she wondered why Terry hadn't spoken to her. It wasn't like him to avoid her like that.

"Oh," Walter said, seeming surprised. "Well, I'm sure he can explain it."

A few minutes later, Walter stood up. "Just going to find the head," he said, adding, with an apologetic grin, "I'm an old man, you know." Christie smiled weakly in response. Walter crossed to the door and opened it. Terry Jansen was standing there, looking surprised. Christie couldn't explain it, but she had a strong feeling he'd been standing outside the door for a while.

"Hey, Terry," Christie greeted him.

Terry stepped into the room. "Hey," he said, then turned to Walter, holding out his hand. "Walter."

The two men shook hands. "Terrible thing," Walter murmured, "just terrible." Then he left the room, saying, "I'll be back in a few," as he closed the door.

Terry sat next to Christie. "I'm sorry," he said, "so sorry. If there was anything I could've done – " His voice trailed off. He looked down at his hands, clasped together in his lap. Sitting next to him, Christie could smell the pungent odor of his dried sweat. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket or tie, and the sleeves of his rumpled dress shirt were rolled up. There were several dried reddish spots on the front of his shirt. With a jolt, Christie realized they were blood – Jimmy's blood.

"I know," Christie assured him.

"How is he?" Terry asked anxiously.

"They're operating on him, but I don't know," Christie said, then added, "I saw him before they took him to the operating room. He looked – pretty bad."

"Yeah, I know," Terry agreed. "He isn't going to – ?" His voice trailed off.

"Honestly, I don't know."

"He'll make it," Terry said, sounding as if he was trying to reassure himself as much as Christie. "Jimmy's tough. He'll make it." He looked down at his hands again.

They sat silently for a few moments. Then Christie asked, "What happened? I don't understand – "

A strange pained look passed across Terry's face. "There was this guy – he tried to rob an armored car, but patrol got there before he could take off. He had – an assault rifle. He was just – raking the whole street. He took out a cop – " The color drained from his face. He swallowed hard, then continued, " – he was standing right next to me."

"Oh, my God," Christie breathed.

"Jimmy was over behind the car, firing at the guy, you know, but he couldn't bring him down. Then Jimmy used up his last clip, and the guy threw down the assault rifle, you know, like he was empty, too. I, uh – " He paused, his eyes sliding to the left. "I was pinned down, had to take cover, so I slid my weapon over to Jimmy. He got off a coupla shots at the guy. The second one took him out. But before Jimmy got him, the guy pulled out a nine, and Jimmy was – hit."

Terry's voice broke as he finished speaking. He hung his head. "I'm so sorry," he repeated.

"Oh, Terry," Christie said. She didn't know what else to say. But she was puzzled. She didn't understand why Terry hadn't spoken to her before, and why he couldn't look her in the eye. And he kept saying he was sorry. But he had nothing to apologize for. He'd done everything he could. He must be traumatized, she told herself – he saw Jimmy get shot, and that other cop, too. And he had been in danger himself. Anyone would be shaken by what he'd been through today.

Then Christie remembered the question that had been bothering her ever since Captain Myers gave her the news that Jim had been shot – the question that, inexplicably, seemed so important. "What were you doing there – I mean, on 34th Street – how come you were there?"

"Wha – ? Oh. We were leaving the ME's office when we heard the call on the radio. We were only a few blocks away, so we responded," he said. "Jimmy was driving," he added, as if that explained it.

Christie nodded to herself. Of course Jimmy responded. That, at least, made sense.

There was a soft knock on the door. Christie stood up and went to see who was there, but Annie Jansen opened the door before she reached it. Annie hurried to Christie's side and embraced her. "Oh, hon, I'm so sorry," she said, "I can't believe it."

"I know."

Annie released her, then started toward the row of chairs along the far wall. "Come, come, sit down," Annie urged her. "Is there anything I can do?"

Christie sat down next to Annie, then shook her head mutely. Suddenly, she no longer had the energy to speak.

Annie and Terry exchanged worried looks. "How's Jimmy?" she asked.

"Still in surgery," Terry replied tersely.

"He'll be OK, I know he's gonna be OK," Annie said encouragingly. When Christie didn't respond, she patted Christie's hand. "It's OK, hon, you don't have to talk, we'll just sit with you for a while."

"Thank you," Christie murmured, relieved that she didn't have to explain herself to Annie. She was a cop's wife, too. But at the same time, Christie knew Annie was thinking, "Thank God it wasn't Terry." As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she felt a sudden, irrational surge of anger and jealousy. _Annie's_ husband was safe, and whole, while Jimmy was having brain surgery. It wasn't fair. She looked away, to keep Annie from seeing the expression on her face.

After a few minutes of fidgeting silently, Terry stood up and began to pace. Annie looked up at him and shook her head, frowning, but he ignored her. When he reached the far end of the room for the third time, he stopped and turned back toward Annie. "I'm going to the prayer vigil," he announced abruptly. "You coming?"

Instead of answering him, Annie spoke to Christie. "They're holding a prayer vigil for Jimmy in the hospital chapel," she explained. "The rest of the squad was going to go there when they were finished giving blood. We can join them there – if you want."

"I should stay here," Christie replied. "But you can go."

"We can't leave you alone, hon," Annie protested.

"It's OK – really," Christie assured her. "I'll be fine."

"Well, if you're sure – " Annie said as she reluctantly followed Terry out of the room.

As Terry and Annie left, the rest of Jim's squad – Coop, Mitch, Junior, Kevin, and Lt. McConnell – filed in, followed by Walter. She was touched by their obvious affection for Jim and their concern for her, but it was all she could do to murmur her thanks for their support. They soon ran out of things to say and left to join the prayer vigil. Walter remained behind.

"You don't have to stay, Walter," Christie told him, "I'll be OK."

"You sure about that?"

"Yes."

"All right," he said doubtfully, adding, "I'll pray for Jimmy – and for you." He gave her a final, brief hug and left.

Christie gave a sigh of relief as she sank into a chair. She needed some time alone with her thoughts, but she wasn't going to get it – not yet. Her parents had arrived.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Waiting**

_Chapter Three_

In his late sixties, Gordon Richmond was still an impressive figure. Just under six feet tall, with thick white hair and dark blue eyes, he had retained his shrewd intelligence and the sense of humor which had always endeared him to his younger daughter. Casually dressed in slacks and a knitted shirt with a collar, he looked as if he'd come straight from the golf course.

Christie only had to look at her mother Adele to know what she would look like in late middle age. Her hair was dark brown, almost black, like Christie's own – even if the color was no longer entirely natural – and drawn back into a sleek bun. As always, she was perfectly dressed for the occasion, in a chic but comfortable tunic over matching trousers. Only her mother would have the perfect outfit for a hospital waiting room, Christie thought wryly.

Her father crossed the room and held out his arms to her. She met him halfway. "Sweetheart," he said, enveloping her in a hug. After he released her, he asked, "How is he?"

Christie shook her head. "I don't know," she answered. "He was shot – in the head. They're operating on him now."

Gordon nodded gravely. "I know. The young lady who called told us." He took Christie's hand and led her to a chair. He sat down next to her, still holding her hand. After looking closely at his daughter, he asked, "How are you doing?"

"I can't – believe it," Christie stammered.

"I know, sugar," her father replied gently.

Adele stood in the doorway, watching her husband and daughter, then followed them across the room and sat opposite them. "He'll be okay, honey," she said unconvincingly. Christie looked at her but didn't respond. She could guess what her mother was thinking. Adele barely tolerated Jim. An NYPD homicide detective was not the husband she had in mind for her younger daughter. Getting shot wasn't likely to improve her opinion of him. It wouldn't make any difference that people were calling Jim a hero. No matter what happened, she would blame him.

Christie turned back toward her father, who let go of her hand and put his arm around her. She rested her head on his shoulder for a moment, taking comfort from his presence. Gordon was the only member of her family who had accepted Jim – probably because the two men had more in common than they cared to admit. Like Jim, Gordon had overcome the disadvantages of his childhood through determination and hard work. He was what used to be called a "self-made man." Raised in poverty on the Lower East Side, he'd made his money in the restaurant supply business, then parlayed it into a fortune by shrewd investing in the stock market and real estate. Wealth had smoothed some of his rough edges, but unlike his wife, he had never forgotten where he came from.

Father, mother, and daughter sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts. A few minutes later, all three looked up anxiously when the door opened. Mandy came in and sat across from Christie and Gordon. "I just spoke to the OR – " she began.

"What is it?" Christie interrupted.

"Detective Dunbar is still in surgery," Mandy replied in her soft voice. "Dr. Peterson said it's going well."

"Is he going to be all right?" Gordon asked.

"I don't know. Dr. Peterson didn't say," Mandy said. "I'm sure they're doing everything possible for him. Dr. Peterson's the best."

"How much longer – ?" Christie asked.

"I'm not sure. Dr. Peterson said it will probably be another couple of hours before they're finished. I'll check with the OR in an hour or so and give you another update then. If there's anything else you need, I'll be in my office – two doors down, on your left."

"Thank you," Adele said as Mandy stood to leave.

"Yes, thank you," Christie added absently. Mandy's arrival had reminded her of something. After Mandy left, she turned to her mother and asked, "Where's Cat? She said she was going to call her, too."

"Your sister will be here as soon as she can," Adele replied. "She had to find someone to look after Connor. You can't leave an eight-year-old at home alone, and she certainly wasn't going to bring him here."

"Oh."

"If you and Jim had ever had children, you'd know that," Adele added pointedly.

"Mother – " Christie protested, exasperated.

Adele continued, oblivious. "Of course, maybe it's just as well, now, that you don't have children."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Christie demanded.

"Let's be honest, dear," Adele told her patronizingly, "it's one thing to be widowed at a young age, it's quite another to be a young widow with a small child. And think of the poor child, growing up without a father – "

"Adele, please," Gordon interrupted when he saw Christie's angry look. "No one is saying Jim is going to die, for heaven's sake – "

Adele was undeterred. "I know that, Gordon," she retorted impatiently. "But even if he lives, we don't know if he'll be all right. I mean, what if he's not, you know, all there – "

She tapped her head. "What would it be like for Christie, having to cope with _that_, and a child, too?"

Christie glared at her mother, too angry to speak. Gordon finally spoke up. "Adele, dear," he said, "I think we could all use something to eat. Would you mind bringing us something from the cafeteria?"

"Wha – " Adele began, then caught herself, apparently realizing she'd gone too far. "Of course. What would you like, Christie?"

"Nothing," Christie replied automatically, then remembered, to her surprise, that she hadn't eaten all day. She had worked straight through and skipped lunch. Now that she thought of it, she was feeling light-headed and headachy from hunger. But her stomach felt as if it was tied in knots. "I don't think I could eat anything," she said.

"No, no," Adele insisted, "you should eat. I'll bring you something – some yogurt, maybe, or some fruit."

Christie sighed. She knew further protests would be futile. "All right. Thank you."

"What about you, dear?' Adele asked Gordon.

"Just a cup of coffee, please," he replied, "I had lunch at the club."

Adele nodded and crossed to the door. When it closed behind her, Gordon turned to his daughter. "You know your mother," he said apologetically, "she didn't mean anything – "

Christie nodded. She knew her mother all too well.

When Adele returned ten minutes later, Christie managed to force down most of a cup of yogurt. Afterward, she had to admit she felt a little better. But the knot in her stomach was still there. When Mandy returned with an update, she had nothing new to report: Jim was still in surgery, Dr. Peterson said it was going well.

Finally, the waiting room door opened again, and Mandy came in, followed by two men in blue scrubs, Dr. Peterson and a younger, dark-haired man. Still wearing their surgical caps, their masks dangling around their necks, they clearly had come directly from the operating room. Their expressions were serious. After introducing the younger man as Dr. Daniel Jaffrey, the Chief Resident in Neurosurgery, Peterson sat down opposite Christie. "The surgery went well," he said, "and he's in recovery. His condition is critical but stable. We were able to remove the bullet without causing further damage, and we evacuated several blood clots from the surrounding area."

"When can we see him?" Christie asked.

"In about an hour, as soon as we've moved him to the ICU and gotten him settled there."

"Is he going to be – all right?" Gordon asked.

Peterson frowned. "It's too early to say. We should know more in twenty-four to thirty-six hours. But given the injury he's sustained, he could have some – residual damage. I can't tell you how severe the damage might be, or what disabilities he may be left with. We won't be able to assess that until he wakes up."

"When will that be?"

"It depends," Peterson replied. "We're going to keep him sedated for now, to give his brain time to rest and heal itself. If all goes well, we'll back off on the sedation after a day or so and give him a chance to wake up. Any questions?" When no one spoke up, he said, "I'll be here for most of the evening, and Dr. Jaffrey is on call tonight. If you have any questions later this evening, the nurses in the ICU will page us."

"Thank you," Gordon said, as Peterson and Jaffrey turned to leave.

"Yes, thank you," Christie added faintly.

As soon as the two surgeons left, Mandy spoke up. "I can take you to the ICU waiting room now. You can see Detective Dunbar as soon as they're ready for you." She turned and headed for the door. Christie, Gordon, and Adele followed. As they walked down the corridor, Christie tried to make sense of what Peterson had just told them. But his words were a blur in her mind. The only ones that had registered were "residual damage" and "disabilities." A new wave of anxiety knotted her stomach.

A five-minute walk through the maze of hospital corridors brought them to another blandly decorated waiting room – this one outside the Intensive Care Unit. Mandy handed them an ICU information sheet and returned to her office, assuring them the ICU staff would page her if needed. Christie stuffed the information sheet into her handbag without reading it and sank into one of the chairs along the far wall. Outdated magazines and a carelessly folded copy of that morning's _Times_ lay on the scratched and scarred table top in front of her. She picked up one of the magazines and thumbed through it, then tossed it back onto the table. Adele sat next to her daughter, rubbing her shoulder, but Christie didn't seem to notice her mother. After a few moments, Adele withdrew her hand and looked helplessly at Gordon, who shrugged silently and sat down next to her. Christie distractedly fingered the upholstery on the arm of the chair, picking at a worn spot with her fingernail. Adele and Gordon exchanged worried looks. Adele started to speak, but Gordon silenced her with an emphatic shake of his head. Presently, he picked up a magazine from the table in front of them and passed it to Adele, then picked up the _Times_, pulled out the sports section, and opened it.

Finally, an aide entered the room and asked, "Mrs. Dunbar?"

Startled, Christie sat up straight. "Yes?"

"You can see your husband now. If you'll follow me – "

"Oh. Thank you." Christie followed the aide into the ICU. At the entrance to Jim's room, she stopped short. After seeing Jim in the emergency room, she thought she was prepared for the sight of her husband, unconscious in a hospital bed, connected to monitors and machines by tubes and wires. But she wasn't prepared for the sight of the large bandage covering Jim's head. She didn't understand why she hadn't thought of that before. And there was – something – sticking up from the top of his head. It had to be a medical device of some kind, but she had no idea what it could possibly be. Suddenly, it occurred to her that, under the bandage, Jim's head must have been shaved. She blinked back tears as she remembered that she'd been after him to get a haircut – as if that mattered now.

A heavyset woman with short, curly brown hair was standing next to the bed, writing something on a form. She was wearing a blue flowered jacket over a T-shirt and blue scrub pants. A stethoscope was draped around her neck. She looked up when Christie entered. She finished writing, then walked toward the doorway where Christie stood. "Joanne DiCaro," she introduced herself, "I'll be taking care of Detective Dunbar tonight. You must be Mrs. Dunbar."

"Yes," Christie confirmed, then added, "Christie – Christie Dunbar."

"Would you like to sit next to him?" Joanne asked, indicating a chair next to the bed.

"Yes. Thank you." Christie sat down and took Jim's hand. "I'm here, Jimmy," she said. He didn't react to her voice. She turned to Joanne and asked, "Can he hear me?"

Joanne gave her a sympathetic look. "Probably not," she said gently. "He's heavily sedated. But you never know for sure."

"Can I – stay with him for a while?"

"Of course. I'll be back to check on him in a few minutes."

Christie watched Joanne leave, then turned back to look at Jim more closely. If anything, she decided, he looked worse than when she saw him in the ER. The bluish smudges under his eyes had developed into full-blown shiners, and his face seemed even more swollen than before, almost bloated. It was as if he had become someone else, not the Jimmy she knew. With a pang, she realized that could be true. When the man in the bed woke up – if he woke up – he might not be the Jimmy she knew.

She was suddenly aware of the sounds in the room: the soft, regular beeping of the cardiac monitor behind her and the bellows-like swishing of the ventilator. She remembered those sounds from her grandmother's last illness. And she remembered how her father had agonized over the decision to turn off the machines and let his mother go. She couldn't imagine having to make such a decision. She prayed she wouldn't have to.

She thought back to the last time she'd seen Jim before he was shot. They had gotten ready for work that morning in their usual chilly silence. When Jim said, "See you tonight," as he left for work, she hadn't even bothered to respond. She felt a bitter stab of regret as she forced herself to face the possibility that Jim might die, leaving so many things unresolved between them, so many things unsaid.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Waiting**

_Chapter Four_

_Day Two_

Christie stirred drowsily and reached out with her right hand. The right side of the bed – Jimmy's side – was empty. She opened her eyes and was surprised to find herself in her old room in her parents' brownstone. Then it all came back to her: Jimmy . . . shot . . . hospital . . . surgery. She had stayed at the hospital until almost 11 o'clock last night. It had taken that long for her father, with help from her mother and her sister Cat, to persuade her to leave. She had resisted the idea at first. She couldn't face spending the night alone in their apartment, surrounded by constant reminders of Jim's absence. Then Gordon suggested she come home with him and her mother. She finally gave in when Cat, who had arrived while she was in Jim's room, volunteered to go to the apartment and bring her a change of clothes. She had been too exhausted to argue, even though she was so tightly wound that she was sure she wouldn't be able to sleep.

She threw off the covers and glanced at the clock: almost 6:30. She found her handbag and frantically rummaged in it for the slip of paper with the ICU telephone number. She finally found it, tucked into an inside compartment. Her heart pounding, she pulled out her phone and dialed. After a seemingly-interminable wait, Jim's nurse, Joanne, came to the phone to assure her nothing had happened while she was sleeping, "Detective Dunbar" had had a quiet night. Drs. Peterson and Jaffrey would be in to see him when they made their morning rounds; they would be able to tell her more after they had examined him. Christie gave a sigh of relief before she thanked Joanne and ended the call.

Christie showered and dressed quickly, then headed back to the hospital. Cat would join her there, as soon as she got her son Connor off to school. Once at the hospital, she hurried directly to the ICU, only to be told Dr. Peterson was examining Jim, and she needed to wait in the waiting room until he was finished. Someone would let her know when the doctor was ready to speak with her. She started to protest, then stopped herself. It wouldn't do any good. Hiding her frustration, she turned away and left the ICU.

As soon as Christie took a seat in the waiting room, the door opened, as if someone had followed her there. She immediately recognized the man who stood in the doorway: Commissioner Frank Kelly. She had seen him on television the day before, mouthing the usual platitudes. She didn't know how she'd accomplished it, but somehow she had avoided having to speak with him, until now. Automatically, she noticed the details of his appearance. His salt-and-pepper hair was expertly styled. A well-cut black gabardine suit was draped perfectly on his tall frame. The obligatory flag pin adorned his lapel. His face was long-jawed, with a drinker's florid complexion. His features were carefully arranged in an expression of sympathy. He walked across the room and sat down beside her.

"Mrs. Dunbar?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Commissioner Frank Kelly." He extended a manicured hand.

"Yes, I know," Christie replied, shaking his hand.

He covered her hand with his left hand. "The thoughts and prayers of the Department – of all New Yorkers – are with you and your husband. Detective Dunbar's actions were in the finest tradition of the NYPD."

"Thank you," she said.

"How is your husband? Has something happened?" Kelly asked, releasing her hand.

Christie shook her head. "He's about the same. The doctors are examining him, so they asked me to wait out here."

"I see. And yourself, how are you holding up, Mrs. Dunbar?" Kelly asked solicitously.

"All right, I guess," she answered, wondering when Kelly was going to get to the point.

He gave her an appraising look, then said, "There is going to be a press conference in about an hour, to update the media on your husband's condition. We'd be honored if you would be there. You won't have to answer any questions – your presence would be sufficient."

Christie stared at him, a wave of disgust and anger rising inside her. Jim was in the ICU, just down the hall. They still didn't know whether he was going to be all right, or whether he would even survive. But to Kelly he was nothing but an opportunity for a sound bite. Finally she shook her head. "I can't," she whispered, then added, more loudly, "No."

Kelly's face contorted in anger, but only for an instant. Then he quickly composed his features into their original studied mask of sympathy. "Of course, if you're sure – " he said.

"I'm sure," she said firmly.

"All right, then." Kelly turned to leave, but stopped after taking a few steps and turned back toward her. "If there's anything the Department can do for you – anything at all – please let my office know."

"Thank you. I will," she said coldly, but Kelly had already started walking toward the door again, without waiting for her reply.

Frowning, Christie watched Kelly leave, then leaned back in her chair. She wasn't only angry at Kelly's opportunism. She felt like a fraud for playing the role of "wounded cop's loyal wife" when she wasn't sure she even wanted to be married to the guy. She wondered how long she would have to keep up the act.

She glanced up at the family group clustered along the opposite wall. She'd noticed them conversing softly in Spanish when she arrived. One of the group, a short, fiftyish woman with thick dark hair, caught her eye. She stood up and walked across the room. When she was standing in front of Christie, she asked shyly, "You are the wife of the policeman – the one who was shot?"

Christie nodded. "Yes."

"We are praying for him."

"Thank you," Christie said. Then she remembered her manners. "You have a family member here – in the ICU?" she asked.

The woman nodded. "Yes – my _tía_ – my Auntie Lourdes. But she is very old. I think it is her time," she said sadly.

"I'm so sorry. I'll pray for her."

"Thank you. _Que dios te bendiga_. God bless you." She looked at Christie sympathetically, then returned to her family.

"Thank you," Christie murmured. Touched by the woman's kindness, she felt tears spring to her eyes. She blinked them back, hard. She was _not_ going to fall apart. Not yet.

Finally, an aide appeared in the doorway to tell her Dr. Peterson was ready to speak with her. She followed the aide to Jim's room. Dr. Peterson and Dr. Jaffrey were standing next to Jim's bed. A petite woman in maroon scrubs stood to one side, slightly behind them. Her straight dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Her large, dark-brown eyes, with a slight epicanthic fold, were the most striking feature of her thin face. Her hospital badge identified her as "Jennifer Lee, RN."

Peterson was the first to notice Christie's arrival. "He's holding his own," he said, not bothering with any preliminaries. "He had an uneventful night, vital signs are stable, no signs of infection, no significant increase in intracranial pressure. We'll re-scan him, then keep him sedated and monitor him closely for the rest of the day." He glanced at his watch. "I'm due in surgery. Dr. Jaffrey will answer any questions." He turned abruptly and left the room.

Too shocked and angry to say anything, Christie watched as Peterson walked away. She looked back at Jaffrey, who showed no reaction to Peterson's sudden departure. Perhaps he was used to it. After a moment, she found her voice. "Do you have anything to add?" she asked, making no effort to hide her sarcastic tone.

Jaffrey looked uncomfortable. He frowned, then answered her, in the British accent that had surprised her when she first heard it the night before, instead of the sing-song Indian accent she had expected. "There are several encouraging signs," he said. "He's young and healthy, which gives him a big advantage to begin with. His heart and lungs look good, and he's maintaining his blood pressure without needing any medication. His kidneys – " Jaffrey's eyes flicked in the direction of the bag of yellow liquid hanging at the foot of the bed. " – are functioning well. His intracranial pressure is within normal limits – you remember, I explained about that last night."

Christie nodded. When she asked about the device on Jim's head, Jaffrey explained it was an intracranial pressure monitor. It measured the pressure inside Jim's skull, telling them whether his brain was swelling which, Jaffrey had explained, could cause further damage in addition to the original injury. She had learned a lot of new things since Jim was shot, she thought sadly, wishing she'd never needed to learn them. She wondered briefly what was happening inside Jim's head, then turned her attention back to Jaffrey.

". . . a low-grade fever," the chief resident was saying, "but it's not uncommon to see a slight fever after surgery. There's no sign of infection. If things continue to look good, I expect we'll start decreasing his sedation later today."

"Then what?"

"We wait."

"How long?"

"That's up to him," Jaffrey replied, nodding in Jim's direction.

"And when he wakes up – ?"

"We don't know," Jaffrey said gently. "We still aren't sure he _will_ wake up."

Christie's heart sank. "But you said you're encouraged – "

"We are," Jaffrey confirmed. "But we can't fully assess his neurological status until he wakes up."

"If he wakes up," Christie added.

"Yes – if he wakes up." He fell silent, looking thoughtful. Before he could say anything more, his pager beeped. He looked at it and frowned. "I have to go," he said. "We'll talk again later."

"All right," Christie replied. "Thank you."

As soon as Jaffrey had left the room, the woman in maroon scrubs stepped forward. "Mrs. Dunbar?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Jenny Lee," she introduced herself. "I'm taking care of your husband today."

"Christie Dunbar," Christie replied.

"I just wanted to say – " Jenny began tentatively, "I saw what Detective Dunbar did – on the news, you know. We're going to take very good care of him."

"Thank you."

"You must be very proud."

"Oh. Yes. Thank you," Christie replied absently. "I'd like to stay with him for a while," she added.

"Sure," Jenny said, turning to leave. "I'll be back in a few minutes to give him his medications."

"OK." After Jenny left, Christie walked over to the bed. She stood next to it, gazing down at Jim's unmoving form. He looked about the same as last night, she thought. At least he didn't look any worse. His lips were slightly parted, allowing the breathing tube to pass into his throat. Looking at him, she missed his smile. She hadn't seen it much lately. She wondered if she would ever see it again.

She quickly suppressed that thought. After a moment, she realized how tired she still was. Her few hours of restless sleep hadn't been nearly enough. She retrieved a chair from the far side of the room and sat down wearily. She leaned back and closed her eyes, thinking. Jenny and the woman in the waiting room had given her a glimpse of what her life would be like from now on. She would always be the wife of the heroic cop who got shot. No matter how things turned out, her life would never be the same again. Neither would Jim's.

She smiled wryly to herself when she remembered Jenny's comment that she must be very proud of Jim. Of all the emotions which had coursed through her since he was shot, pride was not one of them. She felt an unexpected spasm of anger. He had no right to put her through this. But she'd always known what Jim was like. And she had to admit his recklessness and risk-taking had been part of the attraction, at first. They weren't now – not anymore.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Waiting**

_Chapter Five_

"Mrs. Dunbar?"

Christie opened her eyes. Jenny had returned. "Yes?" she said.

"Radiology is on the way. They're going to take him down to the CT scanner after I give him his meds. If you could wait in the waiting room – "

"Oh – yes, of course." Christie stood up. After a quick glance back at Jim, she turned and left.

When she got to the waiting room, Cat was there. She had Christie's blue eyes and dark hair, but unlike her sister's, Cat's hair was cut short, in a bob. Five years older than Christie, she had the angular leanness which could only come from frequent – some might say obsessive – visits to the gym. The sisters had a standing joke that Cat's motto was, "You can never be too rich or too thin." She met Christie halfway and embraced her. After a moment she stepped back, holding her younger sister at arms' length. She looked at Christie closely, then announced, "You look like hell."

"Yeah," Christie replied wearily, "tell me something I don't know." Then she noticed the sly grin on her sister's face.

"Hey, somebody has to tell you these things," Cat replied.

Christie managed a weak smile in response. "I can always count on you for that," she said.

She followed Cat to the other side of the room and sat down beside her.

"How is he?" Cat asked.

"About the same. They're taking him for another CT scan, so – " Christie gave a helpless shrug.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Christie glanced over at her sister. "Don't say it," she snapped when she saw the expression on Cat's face.

"Don't say what?"

"I know what you're thinking," Christie told her.

"What's that?"

"'I told you so.'"

"Actually, that _wasn't_ what I was thinking," Cat asserted.

"What, then?" Christie demanded.

Cat looked at her sister closely, as if trying to decide what to say. She took a deep breath. "You know, you're really stuck now," she observed.

Christie stared at her. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked guardedly.

"Look," Cat explained, "I know you haven't been happy – "

"That's not – " Christie protested.

Cat didn't let her finish. "I know you haven't been happy," she repeated. "Can you look me in the eye and tell me you've been happy?"

Christie lowered her eyes. Cat had always been good at reading her. Of course she had seen the signs. It was a good thing she had never told Cat about Jim's affair. She hadn't wanted to give her sister the satisfaction of knowing she'd been right about him. She looked up at Cat. "I know you've never liked Jimmy – "

"That's not it," Cat interrupted. "This isn't about me liking or disliking Jim. It's true – I never thought he was good for you. But this is about you."

"So what if I haven't been happy? What difference does it make now?"

"That's the point," Cat told her patiently. "I know you. You're not going to bail on Jim – not if he's not all right."

"He'll be all right."

"Maybe. Maybe not. And if he isn't – "

"I'll take care of him."

"Exactly," Cat said, grimly satisfied. "That's the way it is with Jim. It's always about Jim. Who's going to look out for you?"

Christie had no answer for that. After a moment, Cat continued, "Like I said, you're stuck. And it breaks my heart to think of my little sis stuck in a marriage to a man she doesn't love anymore – a man who's not even the man she married."

Christie glared at her sister for a moment, then stood up and walked toward the door. "I'm going to see if he's back," she said coldly before she pulled the door closed behind her. Shaking her head sadly, Cat watched her leave.

Jim was back in his room. She stood next to the bed, gripping the side rail as she stared down at him. She was no closer to sorting out her feelings than she had been yesterday, in the ER. When she looked at the man lying in the hospital bed, it was difficult to think of him as the man whose infidelity had so devastated her. And she still cared about him, in spite of what he'd done. The fear which had knotted her stomach, ever since she'd heard Jim had been shot, was proof of that. But she could never forget the moment when a friend had told her she'd seen Jim with another woman and jokingly asked whether she'd finally dumped him. Stunned, Christie could only stammer out a "no" in response. Her horrified friend immediately apologized, but the damage was done.

She'd been shocked at first, but after the shock wore off, she realized she had known all along. It all made sense, in some awful way. There had been all those late-night stakeouts, on cases which never seemed to be cleared – unlike the rest of Jim's cases. And even when Jim was with her, he wasn't there – not really. Their increasingly infrequent lovemaking became empty and mechanical – a physical release, but without passion. The emotional connection between them, which she had once thought was unbreakable, had dissolved. It was as if Jim had retreated beyond an impenetrable barrier, a barrier which, she now knew, was hiding his duplicity. Unable to break through, she took on extra assignments at work, if only to avoid going home to an apartment which now felt empty even when both of them were there.

None of that had been in her mind when, consumed by her hurt and anger, she confronted Jim on the evening after her friend's revelation. To her surprise, he readily admitted the affair and promised to end it. He even seemed relieved, she thought, to have been caught. At least he didn't try the time-worn excuse of blaming her. She had to give him credit for that. Hours later, in the middle of the night, Jim was sleeping soundly next to her, while she was wide awake. It wasn't right, she'd thought angrily. _He_ should be the one tossing and turning sleeplessly, not her. Now, as she stood listening to the steady beeping of the monitor recording his heartbeats, she wondered if there would come a time when she would wish she could have that Jim back.

The doctors talked about "residual damage," but none of them could – or would – say what that meant. She'd read the newspaper stories about soldiers who came back from Iraq with "traumatic brain injuries." She wondered if Jim had joined their ranks. The effects of their injuries sounded bad – headaches, memory loss, personality changes, and depression, to name only a few. Some of the wounded soldiers had to re-learn how to do simple everyday things like dressing and feeding themselves. Some of them even had to learn how to speak again. Her heart sank as she wondered if Jim – and she – could cope with such changes. She shuddered inwardly at the possibility that Jim's mental capacity might be affected. He was nobody's idea of an intellectual, but he had a quick intuitive intelligence which allowed him to make connections that others missed. She couldn't imagine looking into his eyes and seeing them empty, with that spark of intelligence gone.

When Jim woke up – if he woke up – he probably would face a long and difficult rehabilitation. So would she. Cat was right. She wouldn't abandon Jim if he wasn't all right. She had to live with herself. And if she left Jim, people wouldn't see a betrayed wife, they'd only see a wife who had walked out on her disabled husband. Still, she told herself, Jim had overcome a lot in his life. Surely he could handle whatever was facing him now. But some things couldn't be fixed. It didn't matter how hard you worked or how determined you were. Suddenly, she felt her future closing in on her. It was a future which would have been unimaginable only a few days before. She _was_ stuck, just as Cat had said. She should have left when she had the chance. Now it was too late.

She thought again about her grandmother. A massive stroke had left her bedridden and unable to speak. She had lingered for months, trapped in a body which would no longer follow her mind's commands, unable to express her despair except with her eyes. Her mind was unaffected, the doctor had assured them, as if that somehow made everything all right. If Jim ended up like her grandmother, she didn't think she could deal with it. Just thinking about it filled her with dread. And she doubted Jim would want to live like that. Really, it would solve a lot of problems if he died. The instant the thought crossed her mind, she rejected it, horrified she could even think such a thing. Jim would be all right. He had to be. She would stay with him until he fully recovered. Then she could divorce him and begin to put her shattered life back together. No one would blame her if she left him then. She wasn't sure she owed Jim anything, but she certainly didn't owe him any more than that.

The door opened behind her. "Hey," Cat said. Then, seeing the look on her sister's face, she walked toward Christie and hugged her. "He'll be OK," Cat assured her.

"And if he isn't?"

"You've still got us." Cat rubbed her sister's shoulder as the two women stood silently at the bedside.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Waiting**

_Chapter Six_

Christie and Cat spent the rest of the morning going back and forth between Jim's room and the waiting room. Christie's back was beginning to ache from the uncomfortable waiting room chairs and the long periods of time standing next to Jim's bed. At noontime, Cat persuaded Christie to accompany her to the cafeteria, where she managed to choke down most of a small bowl of soup, with a chaser of Tylenol, while Cat had her usual lunch of a protein bar and nonfat yogurt. As soon as they returned to the waiting room, an aide came in to tell Christie that Dr. Jaffrey wanted to speak with her. She hurried to the ICU, leaving Cat behind in the waiting room with Walter Clark, who had arrived while they were in the cafeteria.

There was no change in Jim's condition – none that she could see, anyway. But Dr. Jaffrey assured her his CT scan "looked good," whatever that meant, and they would start decreasing his sedation in the evening. Christie stayed in Jim's room for only a few minutes after speaking with Dr. Jaffrey. She needed to escape from the small, claustrophobic ICU room, crowded with medical equipment. But mostly she needed to escape from the sight of the silent, unmoving stranger in the hospital bed who couldn't be her husband – but he was.

When Christie returned to the waiting room, she began going through the contents of the box a hospital volunteer had given to Cat while she was in Jim's room. It was full of cards sent to Jim by well-wishers. Some of them had sent religious medals or figurines, too. She was touched that so many people cared, but she couldn't bring herself to read the cards. Not yet. And she didn't know how she could possibly acknowledge all of them. She sighed, leaning back in her chair. Next to her, Walter was regaling Cat with "war stories" from his long career as a detective. Cat's expression of polite boredom told Christie she wasn't enjoying them, but Walter didn't seem to notice. Christie tuned out his voice and closed her eyes.

She sat straight up and opened her eyes a few minutes later when Walter said, "When Jimmy goes back on the job – "

"What d'you mean – when he goes back on the job?" she interrupted.

Walter gave her a surprised look. "This is Jimmy Dunbar we're talking about," he reminded her. "You know him. When this is all over, you bet he'll go back on the job."

"If he can," Christie pointed out.

"Yeah, if he can," Walter agreed solemnly.

Shaken, Christie fell silent. She hadn't even considered the possibility that Jim might go back to work as a cop. But Walter was right. Of course Jim would go back on the job, if he could. And if he did, she would have to watch him leave home every morning, knowing what could happen and wondering when it would happen again. For an instant, she wished he wouldn't recover, so he wouldn't be able to go back to work. She wasn't going through all of this, she thought angrily, just so he could go back into harm's way.

Walter looked at her with a troubled expression, as if he knew what she was thinking, but said nothing. After a moment, he turned back to Cat. Before he could say anything, she stood up and walked past him to Christie. "I hate to leave you," she said, "but I have to go, or I'll be late picking up Connor at school."

"Oh. OK." Christie set the box on the chair next to her and stood up to embrace her sister.

"It'll be OK," Cat whispered as she hugged Christie tightly. She released her, then said, "Mom and Dad will be here soon."

"Don't worry," Walter spoke up. "I'll stay until they get here."

"Thanks," Christie said.

"Yes, thank you, Walter," Cat said briskly. She shook Walter's hand, then quickly crossed to the door and disappeared down the hall.

After Cat left, Christie picked up the box and began going through the cards again. She opened one of the cards at random and began to read, then closed it and put it back in the box. Walter sat next to her, turning the pages of the newspaper he'd already read.

Out of the corner of her eye, Christie saw the door open. A man in a white coat entered and approached the family at the far end of the room. He spoke to them briefly, then they all stood up and followed him out of the waiting room. She wondered if it was their Aunt Lourdes's time, as the woman who'd spoken to her had feared. In her mind's eye, she saw the family gathering at the patient's bedside. She wondered if she and her family would soon be part of a similar scene at Jim's bedside. She blinked back tears at the thought and turned her attention to the box, picking up a small figurine of an angel, exquisitely carved of wood. She marveled at the artistry which had gone into the object as she ran her hands over its smooth surface, detecting details which were invisible to her eyes. She knew it was only a piece of carved wood, but holding it was comforting, somehow. Walter watched her thoughtfully for a moment but said nothing.

After a moment, she replaced the wooden angel in the box and turned to Walter, frowning. "Have you heard from Terry?" she asked.

"No, I haven't," he replied. "He hasn't been here?"

"No. And he hasn't called, either. He should be here. Why isn't he here?"

"I don't know," Walter told her. "Maybe he's being interviewed – you know, for the investigation."

"Maybe – but he could still call, couldn't he?"

"You want me to call him?" Walter volunteered.

"No. If he can't be bothered – " she said crossly.

"I'm sure there's an explanation," he assured her.

"I guess," she replied, unconvinced. Something wasn't right. It wasn't like Terry to stay away at a time like this. If – when – Jimmy woke up, the first person he would want to see, after herself, was Terry. He needed to be here. She frowned again as she resumed her inspection of the items in the box.

Gordon and Adele arrived a half hour later. They crossed the room and embraced Christie. Walter Clark stood to greet them. "You remember Jimmy's friend, Detective Walter Clark," Christie said.

"Yes, of course," Gordon replied, taking Walter's outstretched hand. "Thank you for being here, Detective Clark."

"You're welcome. And it's 'Walter' – please." Walter replied as he shook Gordon's hand. He turned to Adele. "I'm sorry we have to meet again in these circumstances, Mrs. Richmond," he said.

"Oh, yes, thank you," Adele replied distantly. She turned away from Walter to speak to Christie. "Where's Catherine?" she asked. "I thought she was here with you."

"She was," Christie explained, "but she had to pick up Connor at school."

"Oh. Is it that time already?"

"Yes, it is," Christie replied, not bothering to hide her annoyance.

They sat down, Walter on one side of Christie, her parents on the other. After Christie updated them on Jim's condition and explained what the doctors had told her, their conversation lagged. Christie handed the box to Adele, who began examining its contents, occasionally commenting on one of the cards. Christie gave noncommittal responses at first, then tuned out her mother. Walter picked up his newspaper again, offering a section to Gordon. He shook his head and instead crossed to the television set and turned it to NY1.

When the sound came up, a female reporter was describing the "makeshift memorial at the scene of yesterday's deadly shoot-out." After a brief shot of flowers, candles, and cards on a sidewalk, the reporter appeared, standing next to a man. Christie saw him out of the corner of her eye and did a double-take. For an instant, she thought she was seeing Jim on the screen. Then she noticed the bags under his eyes, his blotchy red face, and his graying hair. She realized who it was at the same time the reporter was saying, "With me is Jack Dunbar, the brother of Detective Jim Dunbar, the hero of yesterday's shoot-out."

"No," Christie whispered, thinking with revulsion of the last time she and Jim had seen his older brother – their mother's funeral two years before. She had died suddenly of a heart attack at the age of 63. Jim blamed Jack for his mother's premature death. The last few years of her life were filled with worry about her older son – his drinking, his failed marriages, his inability to hold a job, the "loans" he never repaid. Then he showed up drunk at her funeral and delivered a maudlin, rambling eulogy, talking more about himself than the woman who had borne and raised him. Christie still remembered anxiously watching Jim during his brother's performance. He'd had to use all of his considerable powers of self-control to keep himself from throwing Jack bodily out of the church.

After they returned to their mother's house following the service, Jack became more and more obnoxious as he continued to drink. When Jack loudly asserted that their mother's death was "Jimmy's fault," caused by her fears for his safety on the job, Jim finally snapped. He went after Jack and had to be restrained by Walter and Terry. Walter called a cab for Jack while Terry stood next to Jim, keeping a close watch on him. When the cab arrived, Jim, Terry, and Walter wrestled Jack out of the house and into the vehicle. After paying the driver and slamming the door behind Jack, who lay sprawled across the back seat, Jim returned to the house, as angry as Christie had ever seen him. "If I never see him again," Jim had told her, "it'll be too soon."

Now that same brother was smugly telling the reporter, "Yes, I'm his big brother. Jimmy – that's what we call him in the family, Jimmy – he always looked up to me, you know, as a role model." Unable to stomach the sight of Jack, Christie looked away from the television in disgust.

When she turned her attention back to the interview, Jack was saying, "Yeah, I'm heading over to the hospital now, gotta make sure they're taking good care of Jimmy."

Sensing a story, the reporter quickly followed up, "Are you saying your brother isn't getting the proper care?"

Jack looked disconcerted. "Wha – ? Oh, no, I didn' mean nothin' like that. I'm sure they're doin' their best. I just mean, I haveta see for myself, you know. He's my little brother, so I'm his next of kin."

"Isn't Detective Dunbar married?" the reporter asked, puzzled.

"Yeah, he is," Jack confirmed. "But I'm his only blood relative, you know what I mean?"

The reporter quickly wrapped up the interview, and the studio anchors replaced her and Jack on the screen. "Turn it off, please," Christie said to her father, who immediately got up and turned off the television. She couldn't believe it. The interview was bad enough, but now Jack was coming to the hospital. If there was one thing she was sure of, it was that Jim didn't want his brother here.

She and Walter exchanged looks. She didn't have to tell him what she was thinking. "Don't worry," Walter said, "I'll take care of it."

It was an hour and a half before Jack arrived in the waiting room. It was obvious he'd stopped for a drink – or, more likely, several drinks – before coming to the hospital. He spotted Christie and headed directly toward her, his arms outstretched. She stood up and started to move away, but Walter intercepted him. "Hello, Jack," he said coldly.

"Who – ?" Jack began, then stopped, attempting to focus. After a moment he seemed to recognize Walter. "Hey, Walter, how ya doin'?" he said.

"I've been better," Walter replied, frowning.

"I went to see Jimmy," Jack said, "but they wouldn' let me in, they said I had to wait here."

"That's right," Christie said, standing behind Walter. "Jimmy's in the ICU, you can't just barge in there any time you feel like it."

"Not right," Jack protested. "My little brother – I should be able to see him."

"Well, you're not going to," Christie told him. "Jimmy doesn't want you here."

"Whad'you mean?" Jack demanded. "He's my little brother, I have a right – "

"You have no right, not where Jimmy is concerned," Walter told him.

"I want you to leave," Christie said. "Right now."

"Not leavin', you can't make me," Jack insisted.

Walter nodded to Gordon, who stood up and walked toward him. They each took one of Jack's arms. "You don't want us to call security, do you?" Gordon asked.

When Jack didn't respond, Walter and Gordon began walking toward the door, pulling Jack along with them. Halfway there, Jack stopped and jerked his arm out of Gordon's grasp. He turned back toward Christie and snarled, "You stuck-up bitch! I told Jimmy he never shoulda married you."

"Get out," Christie snapped. Gordon grabbed Jack's elbow again, and he and Walter dragged Jack through the door. Christie sank wearily into a chair, thankful that part of the ordeal was over. She glanced over at her mother, who had looked on in horror, one hand over her mouth, as Walter and Gordon removed Jack from the room.

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. Walter left at about five o'clock, promising to return in the morning. Two hours later, Adele and Gordon went home. Adele pleaded with Christie to come with them, but she refused, telling her mother she needed to be there when Jim woke up. She'd just returned from speaking with Dr. Jaffrey, who told her they'd begun decreasing Jim's sedation. It might only be a few hours until he woke up. She wanted him to see a familiar face when he did.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Waiting**

_Chapter Seven_

_Day Three_

Christie woke up with a jerk. Momentarily disoriented, she looked around blankly until she recognized her surroundings: the ICU waiting room. She must have dozed off after leaving Jim's room while they changed his bandage. She glanced at her watch: a few minutes after 6 a.m. The third day of her vigil had begun. She yawned and stretched, then stood up and headed wearily for the restroom. After splashing cold water on her face and pulling her hair back into a ponytail, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She barely recognized the haggard face and exhausted eyes that gazed back at her. She squared her shoulders and headed down the hall to the ICU entrance. She pressed the button on the wall and was admitted.

When she entered Jim's room, the night nurse, Joanne, was at his bedside, doing something to his IV. Joanne had been on duty each night since Jim was admitted to the ICU. Matter-of-fact and efficient yet caring, she was a reassuring presence at Jim's bedside. She looked up when she heard Christie approaching.

"Hey," Christie greeted her.

"Good morning," Joanne replied with a little smile.

Christie crossed to the side of the bed opposite Joanne and stood quietly for a moment, looking down at her husband's unmoving figure. "Any change?" she asked.

"Well, you know we've decreased his sedation," Joanne began. Christie nodded. The nurse pressed her lips together in thought before continuing. "He seems to be lightening up a little – he's been moving around some, the last couple of hours, but he's still not responsive. Dr. Jaffrey will be in to see him in an hour or so. He can tell you more then."

"All right." Christie pulled a chair next to the bed and sat down. "I'd like to sit with him for a while."

"Sure," Joanne agreed, making a final adjustment to the IV. "I'll be at the desk if you need me."

"Thanks."

Twenty minutes later, Christie felt herself drifting back into sleep. As she willed her eyes to stay open, she thought she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. She pushed herself to her feet and stood next to the bed. Jim was stirring. Her heart pounded. "Jimmy?" she asked. "Can you hear me?" Then, as she'd seen the nurses and doctors do, she took his hand in hers and told him, "If you can hear me, squeeze my hand." Jim's hand moved weakly. "Squeeze my hand," she repeated, more loudly. This time she felt it – Jim's hand closed around hers. His grasp was weak and fleeting, but he had squeezed her hand. Hardly daring to hope, she repeated the command. This time his grasp was stronger. "Oh, my God," she breathed. Then, forgetting the call button at the bedside, she dropped Jim's hand and dashed to the door, calling "Joanne!"

Joanne rushed toward her, a worried look on her face. "What is it?" she asked.

"He squeezed my hand," Christie replied breathlessly. "I think he's waking up!"

Joanne entered the room and crossed to Jim's bedside. She picked up his hand and ordered him to squeeze her hand. He did so, even more strongly than before. She turned to Christie with a smile on her face. "I'll get Dr. Jaffrey. He's just down the hall. I'll be right back."

Christie returned to the bedside and took Jim's hand again. "Jimmy, it's Christie," she said, "you're in the hospital, you were shot. Can you open your eyes for me?"

For a moment, she thought he hadn't heard her. Then, seemingly with great effort, he slowly opened his eyes. A wave of relief swept over her. He blinked rapidly and scanned the room with his eyes.

"I'm here, Jimmy," she said, thinking he was looking for her.

He turned his head in her direction, but his eyes looked blank and unfocused. Suddenly, his face contorted in a grimace of pain or fear – she couldn't tell which. He jerked his hand away from hers and raised both of his hands to his face. He rubbed his eyes for a few seconds, then blinked his eyes and looked around again, turning his head from side to side. An odd expression, uncomprehending and fearful at the same time, crossed his face. He held his hands in front of his face, then began feeling around his eyes with his fingertips.

Christie watched him with a growing feeling of dread. Trying to control the trembling in her voice, she said, "Jimmy? What's wrong?" His mouth moved soundlessly, as if he was trying to speak. "No, no," she told him hurriedly, "you've got a tube in your throat, don't try to talk." His lips continued to move, as if he was trying to mouth words, but she couldn't make them out.

Christie stared at him, bewildered, then rushed to the doorway, calling for help. Joanne and Dr. Jaffrey turned the corner at the end of the hall and sprinted toward her.

"Something's wrong!" Christie exclaimed as they entered the room. By that time, Jim had taken his hands away from his eyes and started to thrash around in the bed, turning his head rapidly from side to side.

"Don't worry," Jaffrey said soothingly as he crossed the room to the bed. "He's just fighting the breathing tube."

"No, no," Christie insisted, "that's not it. It's – "

Jaffrey spoke across her, in the same calm voice. "It's all right, Detective – Jim – you're in the hospital, I'm Dr. Jaffrey," he said. "We're going to get that tube out of your throat so you can talk. Just relax and try not to fight it. OK?"

Jim turned his head in Jaffrey's direction. Then he frowned, gave a little nod, and lay still. Christie looked at him, but couldn't make eye contact. His eyes still looked – wrong. She felt a stab of fear. She stood silently at the foot of the bed, her heart pounding, as Jaffrey and Joanne removed the breathing tube. When it was out, Jim coughed several times, then took a deep breath and tried to speak. Joanne said, "Here you go," and placed a moist swab in his mouth. Jim looked startled. "Just suck on it," Joanne explained, "it will help with that dry mouth."

After a moment, Jim took the swab out of his mouth and swallowed hard. Then he whispered, "Eyes."

"What did you say, Jim?" Jaffrey asked.

"Eyes," Jim croaked, then added, "Can't . . . see."

Christie felt the blood drain from her face. Her knees buckled, but she caught herself, holding onto the bed's footboard for support. She stared at Jim, speechless with shock. For the past two days, she'd thought waiting for Jim to wake up would be the hardest part. But now she realized the hard part was just beginning.

_The End_


End file.
